


Jingle Balls

by Candymacaron



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animation, Christmas Fluff, Family, Fanart, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Holidays, Humor, Love, M/M, Mild Smut, Romance, Some Plot, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Merlin takes a gulp of his wine, and then grabs Arthur’s, finishing it in a swig. He grimaces, the unpleasant mental image of his mum seeing Arthur’s nutcracker not fully erased, but he’s trying to be positive here. To look on the bright side."</em>
</p><p> </p><p>A fluffy farce in which Arthur makes a colossal mistake, parents visit, euphemisms abound, and Merlin fixes everything just in time for Christmas. (fic + art)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jingle Balls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DeHeerKonijn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeHeerKonijn/gifts).



> To DeHeerKonijn, what a joy it has been to create for you this Merlin Holidays fest! I do hope this fic makes you happy, and fluffy, and gives you all the good feels and chuckles you so richly deserve this holiday season. I kept in mind your tags as I wrote, with your lovely art adding inspiration. <3 <3
> 
> To my beta, [Detochkina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Detochkina/pseuds/Detochkina) thank you for reading through this and assuring me I'm not crazy. No Britpicker for this fic, so feel free to tap me if anything sounds out of sorts.
> 
> I own nothing except my mistakes. Apologies in advance for the penis euphemisms and puns. It had to be done. :)

Arthur opens the door to The Rising Sun. Shielding Merlin behind him; he pushes through the dense red and green-clad pub crowd, using their high-street shopping bags as a barricade.

It’s the couple’s usual Christmas-Eve ritual: shopping, grumbling about the shopping, culminated by nipping into the local pub before wrapping gifts.

Pulling out two stools, Arthur offers one to Merlin, waving his arm to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Hey! Gwaine! Two glasses of mulled wine,” Arthur calls, watching Merlin tuck the other half of their purchases into an empty space under the bar.

Gwaine winks at them from behind the counter. He rubs his hands together, fixes the drinks, and then slides them across the counter, mouthing, “On the house,” to Arthur over the noise.

Blinking fairy lights and strings of tinsel glitter from the rafters, the plaster-trophy stag mounted on the wall behind the tap staged to look like _Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer's_ pathetic—and distant—cousin. Still, it’s a festive change from the usually draughty decor.

Arthur dispatches his leather gloves with his teeth as the stags nose flashes, Merlin admiring the milling patrons as they sip their drinks.

“How’s the wine?” Arthur asks.

Merlin takes a taste and smacks his lips. “Surprisingly drinkable,” he concedes. “Gwaine must have stopped watering it down to save a quid, like he did last year.”

“Brilliant. Good to hear,” Arthur replies. A tight expression passes over his face.

Merlin glances at the table. He’s already half a glass in over Arthur, who’s barely touched his wine. Come to think of it, he’s been noticeably quiet all evening.

“You’re frowning at your cup like a fly’s drown in it,” Merlin says, poking Arthur in the bicep. “Should I order you something else?”

“No. No. It’s…” Arthur’s face colours. “Merlin, if I tell you something, would you promise not to be angry with me?” he asks far too casually, considering the question.

Merlin first met Arthur at a rubbish cafe, queuing for coffee. He doesn’t remember much about that pivotal moment, other than Arthur’s hypnotically blue eyes, how fiercely he’d accused Merlin of cutting in queue, Merlin telling Arthur in no uncertain terms to go bugger himself with the stick up his entitled arse.

They’ve been texting each other every night since, and it’s been two _glorious_ years since they started dating.

They’ve reached a point in the relationship where fine dining and flash have settled into joggers, telly, and companionable warmth. Their mates call them “stupidly in love”. Morgana, Arthur’s stepsister, just calls them _stupid_.  If Merlin had to describe his boyfriend to someone who’d never met him, he’d call him “stubborn”, and, “perfect”.

Take tonight for example, when Arthur’s being both of these things at the same time.

“This isn’t the type of conversation that starts with, “ _It’s not you, it’s me_ , by any chance, is it?” Merlin asks, a little too loud, even for pub-talk.

The customer next to Merlin turns from his pint, eyes the pair, and quickly goes back to pretending not to listen.

“What, of course not! Nothing like that,” Arthur says, wide-eyed. He fiddles with his beer mat. “The thing is, Merlin, we can’t have Hunith round at ours for Christmas tomorrow.”

Merlin scrunches his nose. “You want me to spend Christmas with only Uther Pendragon in our flat for company? Excuse me? But you _love_ my mum.”

Arthur nods, not even debating it.

“And you’ve been going on all month about her pud and mince pies! _Will Hunith be making this, Merlin? Will she cook that, Merlin? Should I stock the cupboards for her, Merlin?_ ” Merlin drones in his best Arthur impersonation. “And the way mum talks about you. Sometimes I think she likes you best, despite me being her biological son.”

Arthur groans. He looks as if he’s about to be ill. “I doubt Hunith feels that way anymore.”

“You’re… serious?” Something clenches in Merlin’s chest. Defensive. This is his mum Arthur’s talking about, and nobody—nobody—bad-talks Merlin’s mum.  “Why would you ever suggest she can’t come join the family for Christmas?”

“This isn’t about Hunith,” Arthur says. He rubs his forehead, “Merlin, I’ve been trying to tell you all day... there’s no easy way to put this.”

Arthur takes a jittery breath, steadies himself on his stool, and then blurts, “We can’t have your mum over, because I accidently sent her a picture of my _jingle-balls_ today, and now I bloody well am never going to be able to look Hunith in the eyes again. Let alone speak to her. _Alright_?”

Merlin pauses. He takes a moment to digest the information. “Jingle... _what?_ Is that a euphemism ? For your…” He motions with his cup towards Arthur’s crotch.

Arthur swallows thickly, nodding.

“Wait, you _WHAT_?”

“It was meant for you, as a Christmas present! I can't help that both of your names come up under _Emrys_ in my mobile, I forgot to separate the first and last name's in my contacts!”

“Of course we’re both _Emrys_! She’s my _mum_!”

“Tell me I’m mental,” Arthur’s voice takes on a fracture quality.  He looks at Merlin’s coat, focusing on the pockets as if he has x-ray vision. “Tell me the photo went to your mobile. That I’m mistaken.”

“Arthur,” Merlin sighs. “The last photo you texted me was of your coworkers Labrador puppy with the caption: _CUTE. WANT._ Under it and a heart emoji. You haven’t sent me a photo since.”

Arthur makes a pathetic noise, and Merlin’s heart breaks.

“Love, calm down,” he purrs. He wraps his arm around Arthur, snuggles him and glances ‘round the pub to make sure Gwaine’s out of sight before kissing Arthur’s cheek, whispering softly into his ear, “How bad are we talking? _Dick in a box? The Full Monty?_ ”

“Twig. Berries. All of it. Wrapped up in a silk bow.” Arthur groans. Merlin’s touch seems to relax him, though. He lets his head rest briefly on Merlin’s shoulder. “But my head is cropped out.”

“Artistically filtered?” Merlin ventures.

Arthur pulls a face. “No. Not really.”

“Shaved?”

“Entirely.”

“Wait. You…” A grin dimples Merlin's cheek. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little— _scratch that_ —a _lot_ aroused. “You actually staged and took a sexy photo for me?”

“The _sexy_ part is debatable,” replies Arthur.

Gwaine’s finally spotted them, and is making mocking kissy faces across the counter while he works. Merlin ignores him in favour of squeezing Arthur tighter.

“You’ve never done that before. Taken kinky selfie photos. I thought you hated them on principle?”

To Merlin’s shock, Arthur flushes. “Wanted to surprise you. For Christmas,” he says, and pulls back. “I thought you’d like it, but now you’re probably going to break up with me because I’ve traumatized your mum.”

“Nobody’s forgoing Christmas, or breaking up with anybody,” Merlin replies, defiant. “Mum is…” He takes a gulp of his wine, and then grabs Arthur’s, finishing it in a swig. Merlin grimaces, the unpleasant mental image of his mum seeing Arthur’s _nutcracker_ not fully erased, but he’s trying to be positive here. To look on the bright side.

“Mum’s an adult. And awkward as this is to admit, yours wouldn’t be the first _unwrapped_ present she’s seen,” decides Merlin. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow, when she visits. Sort this misunderstanding out, OK? You’ll still get to bake holiday treats together, and we’ll _both_ be able to look mum in the eyes again by Boxing Day. I promise.”

Arthur and Merlin wrap presents, trim the tree, and Hoover the carpet in preparation for their house guests. Arthur even polishes the flatware, as if cleaning cutlery will help mend his tarnished image.

By breakfast Christmas day, the flat sparkles, half of the chocolates have been eaten, (by Merlin), and the cork on the Sherry popped (by Arthur).

“Easy big fellow. Save some for the company,” Merlin coos. He takes a running jump, landing beside Arthur on the sofa with an awkward sugar-high dive.

Arthur’s in a red woolen jumper with a google-eyed Santa on it—the one Merlin bought him as a gag gift last year. He’s nursing Sherry straight from the bottle, looking cozy, festive, but also a little peakish.

“Sorry,” Arthur whispers, and makes more room for Merlin on the sofa. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand, and then corks the bottle, surrendering it to Merlin’s outstretched hand.

“Nervous?” Merlin asks, resting the bottle on the floor.

“Can’t be helped.” Arthur shrugs. He sinks into the sofa cushions, as if willing them to engulf him. “I’ve been a right idiot.”

Merlin chuckles.

“You’re supposed to contradict me,” scoffs Arthur when Merlin fails to reply.

“Contradict you? Never. What kind of boyfriend would that make me?”

Merlin crawls on top of Arthur and rests his ear against his chest, the way a man would a seashell found on the shore. When he hears Arthur’s heartbeat, steady and strong in his ear, Merlin makes a contented little noise, kneading the taut muscles in Arthur’s back until Arthur goes pliant.

Arthur hugs Merlin close. He leans down, kisses the top of Merlin’s forehead—once, twice—before guiding Merlin’s face up to meet his lips.

“You’re the best boyfriend,” Arthur whispers, and Merlin wants to be witty, to tease him, but the fearless honesty in Arthur’s voice overwhelms him.

“Flatterer. You just want to get into my pants before the party,” Merlin replies, but it comes out more breathy than snarky.

Merlin closes his eyes and rolls his hips, letting Arthur tease his mouth open at a deliciously slow pace. He tastes like Sherry, and chocolate, Arthur’s eagerness alone enough to get Merlin hard.

“I want to see that kinky photo you took,” Merlin says, sliding his hand roughly over the bulge in Arthur’s denims. “Been thinking about it since last night.”

“Merlin...” Arthur groans.

“Show it to me, please. I’ll take off my trousers. Let you do whatever you want with me.”

Arthur closes his eyes and exhales slowly, as if he’s about to give in.

And then the bloody doorbell rings.

Hunith Emrys is a five-foot-four middle-aged bundle of joy, with culinary skills to rival any contestant on _The Great British Bake Off_.

When she enters the flat, she kisses Merlin on his cheek, bombarding him with beautifully wrapped parcels, and news about relatives and friends back home in Ealdor.

“The presents are ready to go under the tree,” she says, her smile a mirror-version of her sons, and equally bright. “The tags are marked, and I’ve bought enough Christmas crackers for everyone!”

Arthur’s greeted with the same familial enthusiasm, as if nothing odd has passed between him and Hunith. Arthur’s polite, but Merlin can tell he’s maintaining a considerable distance.

When Uther Pendragon arrives five minutes later, a grimace on his face and a bottle of red wine tucked under his right arm, their tiny holiday gathering is complete.

Uther’s welcome is less emotional, more instructional. He adds his coat to the mountain of parcels in Merlin’s arms. _Hang it in the closet. Merlin. No creasing the wool this time._ And then grumbles to Arthur about the weather.

Uther stops talking mid-sentence when he spies Hunith, ferrying her supermarket bags into the kitchen. His posture stiffens.

“Ms Emrys,” he says, giving a cordial nod. “Those bags look heavy. Would you like help with them?”

Hunith’s eyes widen. Merlin gapes behind her like a fish, balancing the coat and tilting stack of parcels in his arms—he’s clearly the person in greatest need help.

“Mr Pendragon,” she replies, clearing her throat. “No. No. I can manage.” Turning quickly to Arthur. “Arthur, will you be a dear and lend me a hand in the kitchen?”

Arthur swears that he hears Hunith exhale as soon as she closes the door, leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen. He stands awkwardly by the cooker, puts down her bags, and watches Hunith sort out her workspace.

Once vegetables, fruits, and miscellaneous supplies scatter the countertop, Hunith sets about doing what she does best: commandeering the kitchen for a Christmas Feast.

Behind the hardwood door, Arthur can hear the sound of tumbling parcels, broken glass, and Merlin’s creative swearing.

Christmas, it seems, is proceeding with the usual traditions.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Dinner isn’t going to cook itself,” kids Hunith. She motions Arthur to the counter beside her, handing him a weighty hessian sack. “Let’s start by preparing appetizers, shall we?”

“You should ask Merlin to do this,” Arthur sputters. He grips the sack. “I’m rubbish at cooking.”

Hunith laughs, pulling out some bakeware from one of her bags, which hits the Formica with a clink. It’s common knowledge that Arthur and Merlin survive entirely on takeaways, and don’t even own a colander.

“Don’t be modest, young man,” she says, selecting a wooden spoon for the sole purpose of shaking it at Arthur. “You’ve always been such a diligent _sous chef_. Why don’t you pass me your nuts, and we can get started?”

Arthur nearly drops the sack.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” he croaks.

“Your nut sack. The one you’re holding.”

Arthur stares at the lumpy hessian sack in his arms, letting it hit the floor as he jumps backward. Arthur’s arse slams into the cooker with a thud and Merlin, bless him, chooses this exact moment to peek in through the kitchen door at them.

“Merlin, I was wondering where you’d wandered off,” Hunith says, distracted. “Can you please preheat the oven to 190 degrees and help Arthur clean up? We were just about to begin. This recipe calls for a strong pair of arms to half the chestnut shells, or else they’ll explode in the oven.”

Merlin closes the door. He walks into the kitchen and raises a solitary eyebrow, glancing between a pale Arthur, spilled chestnuts, and his seemingly oblivious mum.

A cheeky look shadows Merlin’s face.

“I’m sure you and Arthur have things covered.” Merlin grins. “He’s as strong as they come, and used to handling nuts.”

Arthur shuffles along the wall like a crab, his eyes never leaving mother and son. He could box Merlin’s ears right now. He really could. Eventually his hand paws at air, coming to rest on the door handle.

“Brilliant,” Arthur swallows. “Well, I’d love to help but… I need to check on...”

“Your father?” Merlin supplies.

“Father. Yes. I thought I heard him… er…”

“Ask for something?”

“That’s it.” Arthur nods. “I better not keep him waiting."

He jiggles the door handle frantically and bolts from the kitchen, leaving Hunith and Merlin staring at the doorway Arthur’s disappeared from.

Hunith glances to the chestnuts spilled across the floor, then back at Merlin. “What on Earth has got into Arthur?” she asks. “He’s normally so attentive when I bake, and he hasn’t asked to taste test anything I’ve brought even once! It’s not like him.”

“I don’t think he’s hungry today,” Merlin says.

Hunith face falls. “Heavens, is he ill? Shall I make soup for Christmas instead?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Mum. There’s something I have to tell you. To… confess.” He leans against the counter. “Did you, perchance, receive a message on your mobile recently? With a rather…” Merlin nips the inside of his cheek, searching for the right word, because he bloody-well isn’t going to say _cock_ in front of his mum. “A rather _scandalous_ photo.”

Hunith blushes. She lowers her voice. “You know about that?”

“It was an accident, Mum!” Merlin sputters. “Arthur didn’t mean to send it to you.”

“Arthur?”

“He meant to send it to me, as a surprise. And, well...”

“Arthur,” repeats Hunith in a bewildered voice. “That photograph was from Arthur? To—you?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “But both of us being listed as Emrys in Arthur’s contacts, it went to you instead.” His voice trembles. “Mum, Arthur’s terribly, terribly embarrassed about this. Please don’t be angry with him. With us. He really looks up to you. Like you’re his mum, too.”

Hunith slumps against the counter and closes her eyes. She exhales loudly, bringing her hand to her forehead in a flourish.

“Mum!” Merlin gasps. He rushes to Hunith, clutches her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, darling,” Hunith says, laughing until her whole body shakes. “Oh, Merlin, I’m so glad you told me that! I feel so _relieved_.”

Merlin purses his lips. “You’re—relieved?”

She brings her arm down, pats his bicep and says, “Yes. _Very_.”

Straightening herself, she takes her sons face in her hands, squishing Merlin’s cheeks together. “Don’t you ever, ever, worry about something silly like that! I adore you and Arthur. You’re my sweet boys, even if you're grown, and no matter what happens, whatever trouble you two get into. I could never stop loving either of you.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, but Hunith continues.

“When that picture popped up on my mobile, I was so embarrassed! Can you imagine? What if the ladies at my flower club had seen? As soon as I saw the name Pendragon and that lewd photo pop up on my screen, I deleted it immediately, because I thought—”

Hunith licks her lips, her fingers slipping from Merlin’s face.

“You thought what, Mum?”

“Well, truthfully, Merlin, I thought the message was from Uther Pendragon.”

 “Wait— _WHAT?_ ”

“He’s been calling me all week,” Hunith blushes. “Trying to arrange a second date.”

Merlin goes limp beside his mum. “A second… You two have been _dating_?”

“Uther’s rough around the edges, but he’s a kind man, dear.”

“Oh. My. God. You call Mr Pendragon _Uther_ now?”

“He’s in good shape for his age. A great kisser,” Hunith muses. “But he’s so stuffy. Not at all like your father was.”

Merlin sticks his fingers into his ears. “No, Mum. Just… _no_.”

“I suppose I saw the name Pendragon on my mobile, and I jumped to conclusions,” Hunith says. “I really do owe Arthur’s father an apology! All this time I thought he…” a weary sigh. “And I’ve behaved so poorly to him tonight.”

Merlin corners Arthur in the loo, while his mum and Uther are busy chatting and watching The Queen's speech broadcast on telly.

“Merlin, a little privacy!” Arthur says, zipping up his fly.

“What have I said before, about locking the door?” Merlin tsks.

Following his own advice, Merlin flips the lock, waits for Arthur to wash his hands, and whispers, “So, what do you want to hear first? The good news, or the bad news?”

Arthur gives Merlin a conspiratorial look. “Considering it’s Christmas, start with the good.”

“Mum didn’t see your photo.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve checked my mobile a hundred times. It sent.”

“She saw it, but she didn’t _see_ it see it,” Merlin says. He grabs Arthur’s slippery hands, clutching them with enthusiasm. “As soon as your _candy-cane_ flashed across the screen, she deleted it.”

“Enough metaphors. Please.”

“ _Your Yule log_ , then? Your _partridge in a pear tree?_ Your—“

“And the bad news? Get on with it.” Arthur sighs, but he appears genuinely relieved.

“It’s our parents,” Merlin chokes, squeezing his boyfriend's hands for dear life. “Arthur. They’re _dating_.”

“Happy Christmas, Merlin!”

Arthur’s bent on one knee beside their Christmas tree, smiling contentedly as he watches the fairy lights shimmer through the pine-needles. The edge of the cotton bathrobe Merlin gifted him is flapping tantalizingly open, revealing a hint of thigh —not that Merlin’s looking— the mood in the flat mellowed since _the great texting scandal_ , Christmas dinner, and their families heartfelt (Hunith’s) and stoic (Uther’s) goodbyes.

Merlin and Arthur have changed into comfy clothes, devoured the last of the chocolates, drinking enough to be pleasantly buzzed, but not sloppy.

Arthur fishes a shiny leftover Christmas cracker out from under the tree and offers one end to Merlin, the two grown men giggling as the banger pops, raining prizes around them.

“Bugger, you always win!” Merlin says, inspecting his half of the cracker and the hat that’s fallen his way. “And where’s my bloody pun?”

“It’s all in the grip, Merlin,” Arthur says.

Merlin picks up the cheap yellow crepe-paper hat in the shape of a crown, flaps it around, and then places it at a jaunty angle on Arthur’s head.

“Regal.” Merlin grins, admiring his handiwork.

Arthur snickers, snatching a slip of white paper off the floor. “Look, I’ve found your pun.”

Merlin sticks out his hand. “Give it.”

Arthur relents, and Merlin grips the sliver of paper between his thumbs, clearing his throat and making a serious expression as he reads aloud.

“ _What was King Arthur’s favorite childhood Christmas gift?_ ” booms Merlin in a faux-deep voice.

The edge of Arthur’s lips curl. “ _Excali-bear_?”

With a pained laugh, Merlin crumples the joke, tossing into a pile of wrapping rubbish behind him. “Heard that one, have you?"

“Sorry. I have. It’s old as myth.”

“That’s it for presents, then,” Merlin sits cross legged, begins to count off on his fingers. “This year I’ve received a scarf, socks, chocolates, and a jumper three sizes two big from your father, but I still haven't opened anything from you.”

Arthur leans on his side, props his head in his hand. “You assume I bought you a gift?” he teases, adjusting his robe to a more modest position, much to Merlin’s disappointment.

“If you haven’t, send me the smutty photo instead.”

“I can’t. I deleted it.”

“You could at least tell me what it looked like?” pouts Merlin. “That was my Christmas present! Don’t be a taker-backer!”

“You want to know that badly?

Arthur leans over and sneaks his hand under the tree-skirt, presenting Merlin with a medium-sized golden box that was hidden underneath. “How about opening this instead? It’s your first gift. The second comes after.”

Merlin’s face lights-up. He accepts the box graciously, pulls the green string off the top and stares at the contents, letting out a slight gasp.

Arthur’s teeth catch his bottom lip. “Like it?” he breathes.

Merlin pulls out the roll of red ribbon, testing the silky-soft material against his cheek.

“The first sexy photo I took for you didn’t work out, so I thought that we could recreate it? If you wanted to.”

“And my second gift?”

Arthur motions to himself, running his hands over his clothed body to showcase it.

“Can I take as many photos as I want?” Merlin asks.

“Within reason. And as long as you don’t send them to anyone. Especially anyone with the last name _Emrys_.”

Merlin can’t help but laugh at the man before him. His Arthur. So stubborn, so silly, and so _perfect_. He nods, grinning ear-to ear. “And those _jingle-balls_ of yours? Still manscaped?”

“Why don’t you unwrap me,” Arthur purrs, spreading his legs a little. “And find out.”

 

The End.

 

 

 


End file.
